Tamer of Agents
by Socrates7727
Summary: After everything she'd been through, Natasha just couldn't handle being a field agent. But she needed some kind of job to stay under the protection (and invisibility) of the agency so Coulson reassigned her. Clint, another agent, was having trouble. But then, so are a lot of agents at shield. She becomes a fixer, of sorts. Natasha/Clint/Steve/Bruce/Bucky/more TBD. Updating soon!
1. Clint

AN I don't own Marvel or any of its characters! Hinted Clintasha, other pairings to come later!

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Natasha couldn't handle being a field agent after she finally got free of the KGB and hydra… but she was like a daughter to Coulson and his other baby Clint was struggling so he thought maybe just maybe it might work.

"Teach him control, teach him to hold onto his human side but still be effective." She was sent in when he returned from his latest assignment, which only ended after two weeks of torture and interrogation. He was on a hospital cot still and covered in bandages when she approached. Natasha had always had a gift for reading people, for seeing them through any disguise or shield they put up, and she'd spent years training to see people's needs and desires. She tailored herself to fit him.

He was broken, lying on that cot, and he shied away from her at even the slightest motion. In that moment, he needed love. He needed affection that he could trust didn't have any pain hiding in it. Even when she gave him a small smile, he looked terrified. She relaxed her posture and loosened her gait before sitting gently on the edge of the cot.

"Who the fuck are you?" He sounded angry but she heard the fear there, behind the words, not quite trusting that she wasn't going to rip him back to wherever he'd been assigned. But her only answer was to place a cool palm on his hot, clammy forehead. He closed his eyes at the touch, already faltering and starting to trust her. Slowly, she smoothed his hair.

"Who.. are you?" Better. His voice was gentler, softer, and more questioning than angry.

"Someone who can help." He scoffed but she had already set her mind on proving it. She saw how much Coulson cared about this man and it was the least she could do to help him. Besides, there was a familiarity in that fear. She stroked her finger down his cheek to his throat, ghosting over the ring of bruises there, and he flinched away from her but slowly got used to the touch. The longer she did it, just tracing any outline she could find, the more he relaxed.

"Why are you doing this?" His voice croaked, a bit, but she didn't comment on it. Coulson had mentioned he was an archer so, acting on instinct, she reached out and took his right forearm in her hands. Slowly, she massaged up and down and out into his hand and up to his shoulder. At first, he tensed and almost grimaced in pain but slowly-ever so slowly-he began to relax and then he actually seemed grateful. She just kept doing it.

"Why are you helping me?" So he wasn't the type to let things go… interesting. She moved to his other arm to distract him for a moment, wincing when he hissed with pain, but forced herself to answer him.

"Because we have a mutual friend. He asked me to teach you." That made his eyes open. She got the impression that Coulson was his only friend and he knew immediately who she was, even without noting the signature red hair. He shifted away from her and she let him.

"Widow." She nodded, keeping her eyes soft and her posture relaxed. "He doesn't trust you. He wouldn't send you to help me." She shrugged. He wasn't going to let her touch him anytime soon so she sat up straight again and busied herself by french braiding her hair. He stared at her, awed.

"He doesn't trust you." She just shrugged again and didn't argue-he was looking for an argument. "You're a murderer."

"So are you." He glared but she didn't move or flinch, even if she wanted to. Couldn't let him see that he had any effect on her whatsoever.

"You're out of control." She shrugged. "You're unhinged."

"Less so than I used to be." He tried to sit up, if only to put distance between them, but she just let him. She stood off the bed at his discomfort and moved to the chair beside it. He was watching her like she was a bomb.

"What, exactly, did he want you to teach me?"

"Control, mostly." That made the man hiss, but not with pain.

"I have more control than you do, spider." She couldn't help herself-she laughed. He looked so taken aback by the sound, by the mere idea that someone like her could even smile let alone laugh, that it only made the situation that much more hilarious. She stifled the sound, though, and continued to look at him.

"Of your training and your demons, maybe, but not of your humanity."

She spent hours each day with him. It wasn't like she had a day job, really, and Coulson hadn't given her any other instructions so she made Clint her number one priority. He hated it.

But, gradually, he let up a bit with the sass and the bitchiness. She suspected it was because he was in less and less pain and he was getting used to her but she was only guessing. Even if he seemed readable at first, he was surprisingly manipulative. It bothered her a little, actually, because she was at least upfront when she was emotionless and apathetic but he hid it behind every fake emotion he could muster to the point that it was exhausting just to figure him out. That was likely the plan, though.

She broke him down, little by little, simply by being there so often. She'd molded herself into his perfect companion, taking every little quirk or tick he let slip and adding that into her calculations, but after a while she just… forgot to. She forgot she was supposed to be something else and she just… was?

He noticed the change immediately. She saw it more in his demeanor than in her own but the second she slipped, even if she corrected it, he let down his walls a bit too. So that was the secret. She returned to pick him up after physical therapy again and she didn't put up any front or facade. She didn't lie, she didn't pretend, and she didn't carry herself differently. He noticed.

Immediately, he was more open with her. He told her where the pain was worst and welcomed her touch in the hot tub, even letting his head fall back and his eyes close. Somehow, he had some kind of magic radar that sensed if she was being fake. She'd been trained and she'd lived her life in a cloak of deception but even so she never managed to slip it past him. And, every time she relented, he rewarded her genuinity with more trust, more contact, more information. It got to the point where she couldn't tell who was conditioning who anymore.

He liked when she was genuine. He'd told her as much, when he was slightly drunk and coming down off an adrenaline rush, but she'd never forgotten it. It was the fastest way to make progress with him, so she did it more often. By the time Coulson came to check in on them, finding them in the rec center hot tub like always after physical therapy, they even had inside jokes. He was making progress faster than ever, even managing to walk without a limp.

She did more than ease the physical damage, though. Between the physical therapy sessions, the meals, the trainings, and the workouts she made them sit and she made him talk. At first, she threatened him into it. But, soon enough, he wasn't scared of her anymore and she had to coax it out of him a piece at a time. For weeks, they had a back and forth dynamic where he would only give as much information as she shared with him-a dynamic that she very much disliked. But she did it. And, after a while, it seemed like she earned some kind of report with him and he spoke freely, without any cost or information trade, whenever he felt like it. It was nice, honestly.

They did a lot of trust exercises-Coulson's idea. He said that Fury would need a reason to keep Natasha in agency housing and on the base if she wasn't an active agent, which was fair. He also wrote her job title down as "Agent Barton's Service Spider", though, which she protested vehemently.

And yet, Clint did trust her. She couldn't really understand why or how or when that dynamic had shifted but he did. Enough to show her the scars on his upper back. Enough to tell her the story behind them. Enough to admit to the panic attacks. Enough to tell her about the nightmares.

"I want you to come get me, no matter what, okay?" He nodded. "If I find out that you had a nightmare and didn't get me, Clint, I'm going to make you regret it." She wasn't sure how, yet, but she would find some way to hurt him for it. Maybe find his stash of girlscout cookies? He had some weakness, she was sure.

"I get it, Tash." She smiled, carding a hand playfully through his hair as she put their dishes away and cleaned up the leftovers from dinner. He was the only person she'd ever let call her that. Only because the alternative had been lady bug-because she needed an insect that was black and red, clearly, but spider was too scary-and she was not letting anyone call her lady bug. But it grew on her, even if she would never admit it.

He did actually come to her that night. He was pale and wearing just his sweats with his comforter wrapped tight around his shoulders, still shaking slightly, but she welcomed him in without a word. She already knew he liked physical contact and affection. It was a natural link, then, that the best comfort she could give was cuddling close to him on her bed and slowly tracing patterns on his skin until he could breathe.

"Thank you, Tash." She smiled, making sure he saw it, and nuzzled into the crook of his neck again. He liked when he could hold her, especially in his lap or against his chest, and she wondered sometimes if it was because he needed something to hold onto or if it was because he felt her relax whenever they did it. But she wasn't complaining. It helped Clint, clearly, which was her main goal and it made it easier to sleep through the night. Coulson, even, seemed to notice the change in them and nodded at her in approval.

"I'm proud of you, Natasha." She melted a bit internally at the praise, but didn't show it. "Would you be willing to start training with him?" It was an actual question, she knew, because Coulson never asked her rhetorical questions for fear of sounding too much like her Red Room trainers. He actually gave her a choice. Granted, saying no would be arguably a bad choice, but it was still her choice. And it was Coulson, so of course she said yes.

Training, actually, was a lot easier with Clint than she'd expected it to be. Maybe it was because they were already close and already had that trust there, but she found it almost natural to spar with him. It was slow, of course, because it'd taken years for them to drill it into her but she taught him. She showed him how to search deep within himself to find that shard of hate in his chest, to leave it there, to revel in that hatred for the people who made him this way. And she taught him how to slam it a little deeper into his flesh whenever he needed to fight.

"Use that anger to fuel you, but then let it be. Don't let it consume you. It's a power in need of an outlet but once you give it one, it can't control you." He was a bright student, and he learned quickly. Even after one lesson, he was already significantly improved and she caught him watching her with a little bit more respect and reverence than usual.

"What?" He smiled, having been caught.

"I think I understand you a little bit more." As much as that sentence was like dread in her stomach, it made her smile. She wasn't completely opposed to him understanding her, honestly, and it was the closest thing she'd gotten to a partner or a best friend in her entire life so she welcomed it. That was part of her own training, actually. She had to get better at forming attachments when she wasn't planning to kill the other person eventually.

"Aw, Clint, you're so cute. You think I'm that easy to solve." He just laughed with her, though. Because they could joke like that, without any consequences or repercussions. Because they were friends.

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Thanks for reading! Please please please review! I hope to publish the next few chapters within the next few days!


	2. Steve

AN I don't own Marvel of any of its characters! This is Steve's chapter! Hinted Romanogers and Clintasha.

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Natasha quickly got a reputation. She couldn't really explain what the reputation was, only that it was very different from the reputation she'd had when she first joined Shield as the Black Widow. Clint didn't talk about her, or at least not in detail, she was sure. Their relationship was more than confidential. But, still, people seemed to take note of his trust in her and give her a little more leniency because of it. Maybe he made them see her a little more human?

But, regardless of what kind of reputation it was, she had it now. She'd helped Clint immensely and, even though he was still active and went out on assignments almost constantly, he always came back to her. He treated her like a home base. And she never minded, especially not when he slipped silently into her room after getting back from an assignment overseas and wiggled himself into her bed. She usually pretended not to wake up, even though she did, just so he would get that proud little smile on his face when he finally settled beside her. Their relationship was certainly… unique. But she liked it and he seemed to like it as well so it continued.

Coulson couldn't stop at Clint, though. He had this idea of her in his head, she imagined, of taking her brokenness and mothering all his other broken agents. She didn't see that happening-ever-but it was Coulson so she didn't argue. Six months after she began working with Clint, he tossed her another broken boy. Steven Grant Rogers.

Even she knew that name, knew most of the general story and history attached to it, and she was honestly kind of shocked that Coulson was trusting her with Captain fucking America, but she accepted the job.

He was still in a hospital bed when she was sent in, looking very similar to how Clint had with the blonde hair and blue eyes-both marred by bandages. But the instant look of pure and utter fear on his face wasn't something she would ever forget. Was it because he recognized her as the Widow? She tried to explain, tried to tell him about her loyalty switch, but it became very clear very quickly that the terrified man on the bed in front of her didn't know her.

She looked Russian.

He was scared because she looked Russian. She tried to speak to him, keeping her voice low and calm, but he wouldn't listen. He just panted, gasping out little breaths, and watched her with a soldier's gaze-terrified, detached, fighting for breath and for any kind of defense or weapon like a trapped animal. Finally, she sighed. She left the room, hoping he wouldn't die while she was gone. Coulson would murder her if she killed his precious Captain America, even if it wasn't her fault. But she took a deep breath and came back with a thick spool of rope.

"Tie me up." He stared at her in shock. Of course, that would be the natural response. But he needed to feel secure, like he was the one in control, and if that meant tying her up then she was prepared to teach him the knots. She pushed the rope into his hands. He hesitated, but he was a soldier so when she barked it like an order, he did it. He secured her to one of the chairs against the wall, at her direction. She tried not to let the anxiety brew in her gut at being restrained. Slow, calming breaths. Focus on him.

"There, I can't hurt you. Now can we talk?" Slowly, Steve nodded.

And, after that, it wasn't hard. He wasn't as guarded as she'd expected him to be and she couldn't decide if that concerned or impressed her. But he spoke openly with her. Like even Captain America's damn lips refused to lie, refused to be anything but pure and good. She hated it, on the surface, but deep down it intrigued her because she'd never met anyone who seemed so completely untainted. Part of her wanted to break that goodness, corrupt it. But she shoved that part down and just marveled at it, occasionally testing it just to make sure it was there. And he maintained it, strong as ever, effortlessly. It was too ingrained in who he was to ever change, she realized, and that made her respect him a little more, actually.

After a while, he stopped tying her up during their sessions and, gradually, he let her get closer. He told her about the war, about being Captain America, about the crash. He talked about Peggy, about Bucky, and about the cold. He talked a lot about the cold. How he could still feel it in his veins, how it crept up on him when he was least prepared. He'd been in the shower, once, during his first few months at shield and the water had suddenly ran cold. Even just talking about it, his voice went stiff. But she waited, knowing he would brew in the silence and eventually fill it, and listened as he described the pain attack that had followed. He'd laid in that tub, under the spray of the ice cold water, for over three hours before he managed to stop shaking and breath enough to reach up and shut it off. It had taken three days of lying in his bed under every blanket he owned just to feel steady again.

It hurt her to listen to stories like that, but she made herself. Both because he needed someone to listen and because, somewhat grudgingly, she wanted to know and understand him. The cold was a trigger-she could understand that-but surely it was only mentally. Halfheartedly, she thought to check for a fever. But Captain America didn't get fevers, so she didn't even bother bringing it up to the doctors on the fourth floor because it would only get a little red asterisk in his file that neither of them wanted.

But, after the third or fourth story he told about the cold and the panic attacks, she couldn't resist. She laid a hand on his, surprised to find him actually _not_ warm to the touch. He was actually fucking cold. Some part of her couldn't completely comprehend that, just staring at him, because those gorgeous blue eyes looked anything but frozen and his smile was so warm and perfect that it couldn't be cold… But he was cold-icy, compared to normal human temperature. So, she hugged him without thinking. It was past some kind of boundary they'd previously established and she knew she shouldn't be doing it but she couldn't help herself. Just like with Clint, she ached to help him however she could. His skin pulled the heat out of her, even through clothing, but she just hugged him.

And, shockingly, he didn't let go. He didn't scold her or push her away or even readjust them so that he was holding her rather than vice versa. He hugged her back, though. Gradually, at what felt like a rate of a centimeter every ten minutes, he relaxed into her hold. It was so foreign to her that she almost pulled away in surprise but she stopped herself at the last minute. Instead, she tangled a hand in his hair. Clint had always loved that kind of touch, said it grounded him more than the others, and she hoped it would have the same effect on Captain America and… it did.

She couldn't really believe it. He slouched and nestled into her, clutching her just tight enough that she felt it but not so tight that he risked scaring her. She stroked the short, blonde strands and pulled a blanket up around them as he shivered. Her brain short circuited. Captain fucking America was whimpering against her chest, shivering in her arms, sighing every time she ran her fingers through his hair. Suddenly, she realized. This wasn't Captain America. This was Steve. And Steve needed that physical closeness as an anchor, a reminder that he was still alive and that this was reality.

She cursed herself for not realizing it sooner but, the moment she did, everything changed. The warmth did wonders for him, but the contact did more. She got in the habit of taking him to the rec center hot tubs a few times a week whenever it fit with their schedules and the way he immediately sank into it made her smile. When she touched him in the hot tub, even just a hand on his shoulder, he almost melted. But when she hugged him, settling herself into his lap and leaning forward into his chest, in the warm water he completely shattered. He held onto her for dear life, soaking up her warmth. And she relished it.

It became their routine, and he talked while they laid like that. Sometimes in the hot tub, if the cold was really bad, but usually in one of their beds covered in mounds of blankets and layer upon layer of warm, fuzzy clothing. She always played with his hair, even if it was inconvenient in a certain position or if her hands were tired. Really, that was all he needed. An anchor. Someone to show him, rather than just tell him, that this was real and that this was okay. After a while, she saw him in training again. Their sessions became less frequent but he still came to her at night sometimes when he couldn't shake the cold. She never, ever refused.

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Clint came by a lot, still. He had a way of finding dangerous situations and making them worse, so he wound up in her care quite often. They joked a lot, even if the situation didn't call for it, because he seemed to find comfort in the closeness of their relationship and anything to remind him of it. He liked making her laugh, because he knew he was one of very few who could. Steve showed up, one night, while he was with her and she had a very strict policy of never refusing either of them when they needed her so she welcomed him in. Steve paled upon seeing Clint already in her bed.

But Clint, surprisingly, was more than willing to share. If anyone was going to be petulant and want her all to themselves she would have guessed it was Clint but he easily slid over to make room and gave Steve a small smile. She reached out, took Steve's hand, and led him over to the bed too. It was tense at first but, slowly, they settled into a position that allowed Clint to hold her, his arms around her waist, and press up against her back while Steve nuzzled against her shoulder. She played with his hair, like always, and traced patterns on Clint's bow arm, like always. Somehow, they just fit like that. Clint was exhausted from whatever the hell he'd been doing on his latest assignment and he fell asleep easily, clearly not the least bit bothered by the situation, but Steve took longer. He was cold, though, and the warmth of two other people under the blankets seemed even better than one. He fell asleep, eventually, too.

She lied awake for a long time, that night. Something about having both of them with her like that stuck in her mind, like a thread catching on her nails, but she couldn't place it. Maybe it just felt surreal that it could work so perfectly. Or maybe it was strange, having never imagined either man would know about the others. But, mostly, the longer she thought about it, the more she realized she was so on edge because she finally felt at ease. Logic said it was having two very strong, capable men that she trusted on either side of her-because that made sense, didn't it? Something told her, though, it was knowing they were both safe, and content in her arms.

Clint managed to get hurt a lot. Sometimes, he was just unlucky but a lot of the time he was plain reckless to the point that she actually chastised him for it. He wouldn't stop, though, and they both knew that. He was on a first name basis with nearly every doctor Shield employed, and gave Coulson ulcers. It didn't take long after they became close, though, for him to start going to her for medical attention rather than the fourth floor docs-both because she didn't tell Coulson and because he trusted her more. Soon, she was the only one he would let take care of him. They were friends, sort of, and they had a usual banter that they stuck to. Sometimes, she would ask and made him talk about the hard stuff but that wasn't usually what he needed. Usually, she was just a reassurance, a loving and affectionate touch. Someone to remind him that not every form of contact had to result in pain.

He showed up at her door sometimes too, rather than calling her to his room, and usually after a fight or when he got back from an assignment. Part of her wondered if he thought he was an inconvenience, just showing up like that, and she debated telling him that she loathed spending nights alone now. That she welcomed his company, even if he wasn't hurt. But that seemed like it was a little too far, even for them, so she kept her mouth shut and always reassured him that he could call on her at any time for any reason.

She kept a detailed first aid kit under her bed just for him. Coulson noticed, and helped her stock it even if he disapproved, because Clint had said more than once that it was Natasha's medical help or no medical help. So Coulson grudgingly accepted it. Clint would tease her while she took care of him, calling her mom whenever she told him what to do, but she saw the warmth in his eyes. He loved that she was affectionate and gentle and worried about him. He loved that she was never harsh or angry and never hit him or left bruises of her own. It was in his eyes and in the way he sank into her touch like she was the human form of relief.

He reminded her of Steve, in moments like that, and she even went as far as to tell him that because the men knew each other and she wasn't trying to hide either relationship. She didn't tell him about the cold or any of Steve's history, just the little similarities. They both fluttered their eyelashes in a quick one, one-two-three pattern whenever she played with their hair. They both sighed when she kissed their foreheads. And they both fell into her touch like she was some kind of cure for every ounce of pain they'd ever experienced. Clint just smiled.

"That's because you are, Tash." She rolled her eyes at him, but didn't dismiss it so quickly mentally. Was she? She knew she'd helped them both but was she really so closely tied to relief in their psyches that just her touch felt like morphine? Did it really even bother her if it did?

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Thanks for reading! Please review! Please! It honestly makes me so happy and I publish so much faster with encouragement. Thank you!


	3. Spiderling

AN I don't own Marvel or any of its characters! This is Peter Parker's chapter but no sexual or inappropriate relationship there because he is a pure child (and a minor) andI'm not creepy like that.

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When Coulson brought her his next agent, she fully expected to have to sleep with a man. She'd been counting down, actually, and waiting for it because that was her skillset and she knew it would be expected of her someday. But she had to stop and hesitate when the agent who walked through the door was barely sixteen.

"Hi, I'm Peter." She stared at Coulson in disbelief. "Wait, no, I'm spiderman… fuck. _I can't believe I've done this._ " She laughed in spite of herself, which seemed to put the kid at ease, though she didn't understand the sudden British accent or why he found it funny. Coulson gave her a little smile, as if to say this one is innocent, and dismissed himself. The kid was still just standing there, waiting, uncomfortable because he clearly knew who she was but didn't want to say anything or offend her. She just smiled and motioned for him to sit.

He plopped down on the rug rather than the chair, which she had to admit she was not expecting, and stared at it rather than meeting her eyes. It wasn't bad, necessarily, she just didn't really know what to do. He rambled about nothing of much importance-homework, and the school's basketball team-and played with the texture of the carpet, burrowing and tangling his fingers in it to avoid looking at her. She was going to ask why Coulson had brought him to her when she noticed the fresh scars on his wrists.

"Peter, why'd you try to die?" He stopped. In a flash, he pushed his sleeves back down over his wrists and went back to the carpet in silence but she felt the words bubbling up in his chest. So, she waited patiently for them to come out.

"Because I can't even get my Aunt May and I off food stamps! How the hell am I supposed to save the world?" He sounded… hopeless. It broke her heart that someone so fucking _young_ could sound so burdened by just existing but he did.

"Peter, do you want to get a burger?" He stared at the carpet, clearly holding back tears, but she sensed him coming undone and she didn't want to break him. So she offered a distraction. Slowly, he nodded, as if finally comprehending what she'd said.

"Yeah.. I like burgers." So she drove-because was he even old enough to have a driver's license!? Jesus Christ-and they went to a burger place she knew about a half hour off base. She bought him a burger and fries, even though he tried to pay, and sipped on her strawberry milkshake while he picked at the food. Eventually, though, he filled the silence.

"Calculus is really hard." It was not what she was expecting but, gradually, she was getting the impression that this kid was never going to be what she expected him to be. She jolted back and nodded, agreeing, even though she'd never taken advanced math.

"I've heard that." He nodded too, floundering for what to say. "Do you want help?" The offer could have been a life preserver for how quickly he brightened and clung to it. She'd never taken calculus, or done anything remotely like it, but goddammit this kid was too precious to even have that much suffering in his face again and, if she had to learn math, then she was going to. They sat in that burger shop and went over the textbook for hours. They watched youtube tutorials and read explanations and did practice problems and, slowly-painstakingly slowly-they worked through his homework assignment.

"It can't take this long." He said it quietly, brokenly, and she was confused because as far as she was concerned they'd just accomplished the impossible. But he was upset by it.

"What do you mean?" He sighed, staring at the page like he was going to cry.

"Math. It can't take this long. I only have forty minutes for it a night if I want to get all my other classes' homework done too. It can't take this long…" He was going to cry. Fuck she could not handle this child crying right now because every fiber in her screamed to protect the small angel beside her. She put an arm around him, surprising herself.

"Hey, deep breaths. It's gonna be okay, listen. You have a list of what subjects or topics you're going to be learning?"

"You mean a syllabus?" Natasha had no fucking clue what a syllabus was but she nodded because Peter didn't look like he could answer any more questions right now.

"Yeah, a syllabus. Listen, get me a copy of that list as soon as you can, okay? We'll get this down to forty minutes and if you give me a heads up on any of the other homework assignments I'm sure we can speed through those too." He sniffed, like a dejected puppy. "Hey, we got this okay? Do you trust me?"

"Yes Miss Widow." He clapped a hand over his mouth and lurched for the door like she was going to kill him but she just laughed. This tiny, adorable child was afraid because he'd called her Miss Widow.

"Peter, sit down," she chuckled. "It's okay, breathe. You can call me whatever you want. But I have to tell you now that you're my spiderling and nothing is going to change my mind." He stopped, halfway out of the booth, and slowly his face broke into a grin. Then, he was laughing. It was loud, full laughs from his belly and other people in the burger place stared but she didn't care because he looked genuinely happy. Not completely stable, emotionally, but happy.

"Okay, spiderling, come here and tell me about Hamlet." So he did. And, by midnight, they'd completed all of his homework for the following day. But he didn't seem like he wanted to leave, as if she wouldn't be there again tomorrow even if she promised, and she wasn't going to force him to. So they kept talking, slowly. He told her about Aunt May and their shitty apartment. About school and how everyone hated his Chem teacher, even the other Chem teachers, and called him Mr. FatAss behind his back rather than Mr. Foster. At one in the morning, she sighed and told him to go home and go to bed. He complained, like a child begging his mom for five more minutes, but she shook her head and pointed towards the car.

They drove in silence, listening to the radio, until she stopped outside the apartment complex he'd directed her to. It was quite shitty, actually. He just sat quietly in the passenger seat, though, like he didn't want to get out or go up there and face reality again.

"Peter, it's time for bed." He chewed his lower lip.

"I know." More lip chewing, until she tapped his arm to get him to stop. "Promise you'll be back tomorrow?" It physically hurt her how little trust he had, even though he clearly wanted to. How many people had walked out on this kid and just never come back?

"Peter, do you have a phone?" He pulled out an old flip phone and handed it over, without her even asking for it, as if she was going to take it away in punishment or something. She created a new contact and added her private number.

"This is a very secure, private number. I don't give this to just anyone. I will always answer this number, no matter what, and if I don't, I'm dead. You can call or text me any time, for any reason, even if you just want to complain about Mr. FatAss, okay? I'm not just going to disappear." He took the phone back, gaping at the number she'd typed in and looking like he was close to tears. She honestly expected him to just break down from the roller coaster night they'd had going through his homework but he didn't. He threw his arms around her and hugged.

She jumped, even if she tried not to, but immediately hugged him back because jesus this was a fucking kid who was hugging her because she'd promised to help him with his homework and if that wasn't enough to break through her shell nothing was. She let him be the one to pull away.

"Thank you, Miss Widow." She laughed and pushed the calculus textbook into his hands with the phone, motioning to the apartment complex.

"Go to bed, spiderling. And get me that syllabus."

Gradually, as Peter got more and more of a handle on his schoolwork, they moved to more normal things like meeting over coffee or walking through the park because, she thought, he needed to be normal. She helped him apply for-and get-a job to help out his aunt. He told her about the girl he liked at school, even though she swore she was horrible and not at all the person to ask for advice with relationships. He just laughed, though, and repeated _whatever you say Miss Widow_.

The kid had a guilt complex the size of Russia, though, and she learned that very quickly. All it took was some TV in a restaurant displaying a mugging or a shooting and Peter went rigid at the table, suddenly refusing to focus on whatever homework was in front of them.

"I could have stopped that." She sighed, seeing that she couldn't argue with him, and went back to the calculus. Calculus was, in fact, really hard. She tried to get him to focus on it. Eventually, he caved because he seemed to actually be slightly scared of her still and when she called him Peter rather than spiderling he snapped back to the page of derivatives.

But it couldn't end there. Every single bad thing seemed to trigger that in the teen and she hated it but she realized there was nothing she could do to change it. So, whenever something bad happened on the news, she marched over and plopped a textbook in front of him. He complained the first few times.

"You are a fucking child Peter Parker let the adults fuck up the world while they still have all their hair." Peter didn't laugh but a bit of that weight disappeared from his face. She didn't leave that day until he'd finished his essay and two math assignments. From then on, that was their routine. He texted her a single message-HW-and she dropped everything to go distract him and force him to be a kid while he still had the chance. And she didn't leave, ever, until he gave her the signal that he was okay.

"Thank you, Miss Widow." That was her cue, and she stood with a smile as she handed back the textbook.

"Anytime, spiderling."

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Thanks for reading! Please, as always, review! Honestly it means the world to me.


	4. First Kiss

AN I don't own Marvel or any of its characters! Fluffy Nat/Steve/Clint chapter.

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To be completely honest, Natasha couldn't remember which blonde haired blue eyed shield agent she kissed first. She was a little more than drunk and she stumbled into her room, content knowing both of her boys were on assignment in Europe currently and Peter was working at the burger place in town. That was the only reason she'd gotten drunk in the first place-the privacy.

And a lot of other reasons. Red reasons.

She shook her head, trying to shake off those thoughts through the haze, and managed to unlock her door and stumble in before she realized she wasn't alone. Steve was lying on her bed, curled up under the electric blanket and reading. Clint was perched on her desk chair, playing some kind of game on his phone. But both of them snapped up the second she walked in. They could probably smell the alcohol on her. She swore in Russian.

"Nat?" She knew from the nickname, not the voice, that it was Steve speaking. To be honest they looked pretty fucking similar when she was that drunk and she didn't really mind that they blurred every few seconds. One of them moved to steady her, the other made room on the bed. They guided her to sit on it, seemingly in shock, and she felt them staring at her but to be honest she really didn't care.

"Hey, you okay?" One of them moved to kiss her forehead-aw, sweet-but that was weird to her. When she was drunk, her training moved a little closer to the surface than usual and her instincts became a little less… normal. She didn't let them-whichever one it was-get any closer. She stopped them with her lips.

Whoever it was, they tasted like honey and some kind of berry. Steve, maybe? Had Clint been chewing gum when she'd walked into the room? She couldn't remember or care, honestly, she just deepened the kiss and grabbed for one of the heads of blonde hair.

"Tash-" The voice cut out as she pulled away. One was behind her, holding her waist, sighing. She didn't let him start again on what was clearly going to be some kind of parental rant about irresponsibility, though, because before he could open his mouth she pivoted and pressed her lips to his. He was tense, at first, but relaxed after a second. She felt, vaguely, one pulling at her arms and taking off her coat and her shoes but she was too focused on the other-tasted like peppermint.

"Nat, you're drunk." She pulled away and faced one-Steve?-again but he'd moved farther away and she couldn't reach to kiss him or shut him up. "Nat, come on. Just lay down you've gotta sleep, okay?" She let them ease her down onto the bed but she whined and kicked the blankets off until they joined her under them. They had enough of a routine that they fell into place on either side of her. _About damn time_ , she thought. And then she passed out.

* * *

When she woke up, they'd both left. It was past noon and she had a killer headache but she just popped some aspirin and got off base as fast as possible. Coulson texted her a basic where are you. She used Peter as an excuse. Fuck what the hell had she done!?

"Miss Widow?" She smiled as Peter approached her table, wearing his typical uniform and red apron. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine, spiderling, just here for some fries." He nodded, writing that down quickly, but seemed unconvinced that she wasn't about to emotionally snap.

"And a shake, Miss Widow?" She smiled.

"Yes, and a shake. Thank you, spiderling." He disappeared to get her order and she pressed her forehead against the cheap, vinyl table covering. Why the hell did she think it would be a good idea to kiss either of them!? _Because you wanted to_ … She swore at the voice in her head and buried herself in the fries Peter brought her, ignoring the way he darted away like she was potentially explosive. The sodium and the warmth of the food eased her nerves a bit. It was fine, right? She'd been drunk and they would understand that. They had to.

"Can you help me with my Lit paper, Miss Widow?" She smiled when he appeared without the apron, clearly off now, and motioned for him to join her. Vaguely, she registered her own voice saying of course, spiderling, but she didn't remember opening her mouth. Confused as she was, she let herself get lost in Emily Dickinson.

* * *

Clint was the one who cornered her. She wasn't sure why she'd expected it to be Steve-maybe because he seemed like the more peace offering type out of the three of them-but it was Clint. And it made sense. He was the one who'd forced her to be genuine and real with him in the beginning, so of course he was going to call her bluff now. She just sighed.

"I was drunk." He scoffed and tossed her the hairbrush she was looking for.

"I noticed." Fuck. She was screwed. She could do this, right? It wasn't hard to lie and it wasn't hard to be apathetic she'd been doing it for almost her entire life. She could do it.

"Tash, don't lie to me." Yeah, she couldn't do it. Because all those years, all those lies, they hadn't been to Clint. And she was so screwed because he could see through her like she was made of glass and he called her bluff before she even said anything. Dammit! People had been killed in least stressful situations than the one she was in right now.

"I didn't say anything." He narrowed his eyes, focusing like a spotlight on her. "I didn't mean it." He rolled his eyes, still at her desk like always, and just shook his head. Slowly, he stood. She was just standing there, trapped, because she felt like any move she made would be the wrong one. He wrapped his arms around her waist, hugging her from behind. Fuck she wasn't breathing. Why wasn't she breathing!? He pressed a kiss into the crook of her neck.

"Bullshit." They were affectionate and physical, usually, but never kissed. Forehead kisses were the one exception, it seemed, but even just the few inches he strayed to her shoulder felt like miles into uncharted territory. Why couldn't she stop shaking, though?!

"Tell me the truth, Tash." Fuck… His voice against her ear drum was like nicotine in her veins. She shivered but he didn't take it back, he just held her a little tighter and pressed his nose into the hollow of her throat. She was so, so screwed.

"I meant it." Shit! That was not at all what she meant to say! Fuck this was where Clint would get mad and land a few punches before storming out. She braced without even thinking about it, but he… didn't yell? He didn't hit her or push her to the ground or even let go? He was… smiling? She did a double take but it was a smile, pressing against the side of her neck.

"I'm proud of you." She gaped, but he just laughed. "I'm serious! I know that was really hard for you to say. Thank you for being honest with me." Slowly, she took deep breaths and tried to understand what the hell was happening but he didn't let her. Those beautiful, peppermint lips pressed against hers and immediately she was thrown back into all the little details she didn't think she would ever remember from her drunken stupor. His lips were slightly chapped-overseas work again-but he was gentle with them. Surprisingly gentle, actually. He liked slow, steady pressure and he was a lot more sensual than she'd expected but what got her most was the hand he tangled in her hair, grabbing for her and reaching like he needed just a little bit more of a connection with her.

"Tash," She barely noticed that he was as needy for oxygen as she was until he broke away. "I love you." That… She didn't know what to do with that. It sank in her stomach like rocks trying to drown her but.. It also made her chest light. He pressed that cocky little smile into her shoulder.

"It's okay, Tash, breathe. You don't have to say anything, especially not that. I just wanted you to know." She nodded, slowly at first but then faster and faster until it was just her shaking. He just chuckled and pulled her into his lap. It would have been perfect, and she would have relaxed, if another head of blonde hair hadn't popped into the room. Steve.

"Nat, sorry I can come back.." But Clint waved him in and gave him a little smile.

"No, it's okay, come in." Steve stepped into the room all the way, still hesitant, and sat on the bed. She'd never seen him so uncomfortable in her room, honestly, and it was really disconcerting-she didn't like it. They were supposed to be comfortable with her.

"Nat, I have to ask. Did you mean it?" She started to protest, even just as a gut reaction, but Clint squeezed her hand before she could.

"Be honest with him, too, Tash." She sighed. But, somehow, sitting in Clint's arms like that and staring into the bluest fucking eyes in the world she couldn't do it. She just couldn't.

"Yeah, I meant it." But Steve didn't look upset either. She knew, realistically, that neither of them would throw a fit or hit her even if they were angry but she was still so surprised when he didn't. He joined them in some kind of group hug, adding another hand to her hair, and she finally felt like she could breathe. Maybe just a little bit of that lightness returned. The three of them… That was what made it complete, that was what made it feel like home.

"Hey, it's okay, everything's okay, Nat. We've got you." Strangely, hearing that actually helped. She let herself relax into them and one of them-or maybe both-carried her to the bed. They cuddled together like usual, each holding onto her just a little tighter, but she had to stop and just remember to breathe. Between the two blondes, she realized something. They were the first men she'd ever- _ever_ -let herself be vulnerable in front of without regretting it. Was this what normal people felt like with their friends and families? If so, she couldn't say she was really that opposed to the idea anymore. Cuddled between them, she had to smile because she actually was happy-truly happy-and she wasn't scared of either of them.

Maybe she did love them.

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Thanks for reading! Please review! Updating soon!


	5. Bruce

AN I don't own Marvel or any of the characters! As promised, this is Bruce's chapter! I'm not a huge fan of Brutasha but I do like them platonically so that's what I wrote! Tony and Bucky to come soon!

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The next time Coulson knocked on her door, he had a security key card for her. She followed him down into depths of Shield she hadn't known existed and stopped in front of a heavily armored, cement, reinforced cell. Always a good sign, of course.

"Talk to him through there." Coulson opened a slat in the metal. "Doctor, I brought someone to see you." Doctor. God help her if he was criminally insane. Inside, she could hear someone hiss in displeasure but Coulson just gestured towards the door and walked away. Natasha moved up to the slat and peered inside. It wasn't a cell, really, as much as a bonafide office. There was a cot in one corner and a small, sectioned off bathroom area beside it. Other than that, though, it was full of lab equipment and blackboards covered in writing and equations that looked far too complex to be anything average. And the doctor… He wasn't small or skinny but he certainly wasn't a threat to her even if he looked disheveled and slightly sleep-deprived.

"Why are you in this cell?" The man inside scoffed and didn't look away from his table. He had glasses, she realized, and his brown hair was just shaggy enough to look unkempt. How long had he been down here?

"I put myself in it. Please go away." But she refused. He'd put himself in a cell? On purpose? She wanted to ask if it had been an accident or if he was being sarcastic but he didn't seem like the type who would be anything but direct and blunt. So, instead, she just sat there and watched him through the slot. She watched him until the hairs on the back of his neck prickled and drove him insane enough to talk to her again.

"What do you want."

"To understand." Slowly, she got pieces. It took weeks of consciously visiting him and asking exact, specific questions to put the pieces together into anything more than just fragments. But she did it. By the end of the month, she had amassed an entire board's worth of information and connections. So, when she appeared and read the entire thing to him, complete with her own speculations and observations, she almost prayed that he would see the intelligence as a friend rather than competition.

And, he just stood there. He stared at here, disbelieving, for over ten seconds before moving back to his equipment. She thought he might ignore her-she wouldn't have been surprised-but he began to speak as he worked and she strained to listen. He was correcting her, editing her narrative. Quickly, she began scribbling every detail he said on the page. If not for her own use, than to appear studious because he seemed like the typical nerd stereotype. It took days worth of listening but, slowly, very slowly the man relayed the entire story from beginning to end and she committed it to memory.

Dr. Banner. Bruce, as she soon learned he preferred. It honestly did upset her to hear the pain he suffered because, at least on some level, she could understand the fear he lived in. The idea of having a monster, barely contained beneath your flesh. A monster that could, and would, kill without question. Without discrimination. She felt that hit just a little close to home and it gave her a bit of sympathy, even if she did her best to hide it. But Bruce, if anything, was observant. He was a scientist and he watched her with the attention and scrutiny of any handler she'd ever had. He noticed when she was upset. He noticed when she held back, when she was genuine with him, and when she hadn't been sleeping well. She had no doubt he could tell there were other men she was close to, if not know their names, but he never asked. He just observed.

She let their dynamic continue like that for weeks. Bruce was calm, quiet, and reserved compared to most Shield agents and she was more than willing to put in the time and prove to him that she could be trusted. He got used to her, slowly, and began to expect her daily visits. If she let herself analyze him, she might have even said he looked forward to seeing her. But, after two months, she knew it was time. She unlocked the door and stepped inside, closing it behind her. Coulson screamed at her and so did Bruce but she calmly walked in and sat down on the little cot.

"You don't understand! You have to get out of here!" He was panicking, but she simply regarded him with her usual calm, collected look.

"No, I understand perfectly. You could kill me in an instant but you won't." Bruce snorted bitterly and retreated to the darkest corner of the cell. But she knew from experience what his expression and his movements meant so she knew he wasn't truly angry. Just scared.

"You shouldn't have that much faith in my human side" He was bitter, laughing darkly, but she didn't correct him, she just laughed along. It caught him off guard-her goal-and made him listen.

"I don't. But I'm pretty, I have an attractive body, and I have no means of escape. To the more primitive side of you, I'm not only easy prey but I'm the perfect mate and you wouldn't hurt a biologically sound mate. That's just science, Doctor." Slowly, he emerged from the shadows and began to speak to her. She could see in his face how scared he was of losing control. It hurt, honestly, because she understood that fear so well and she knew exactly how it felt to be scared of yourself, how hard it was to escape that. It was what made her so determined to break through to him.

"You have a better chance of hurting me than he does, Banner. I may be pretty but I'm not stupid." Her use of science and logic got him to come closer, if only slightly. "I was afraid of losing control too, a while ago. I was an assassin before I came to work for Shield, the kind of lethal that has to be bred and beaten into a person. If my control wavered, I could kill hundreds of people without breaking a sweat because I was-am-smart. That twisted side of me would use any means necessary to inflict suffering, even biological weapons and bombs, whatever got the highest kill count. I even tried once. I was a monster, without any radiation to help me get there." She had his interest, she could see that plain as day. Even as shabby and sheltered as he appeared, he was listening to her with bright eyes and a kind of intelligence she loved. He was listening to her, actually listening, and considering it.

"Why aren't you afraid now?" That was the question she was waiting for. The one she'd rehearsed for, planned for, and worked this entire time just to get him to ask her. The one that would help him most.

"Because I understand the Black Widow in me. I'm not afraid of what she can do, I was afraid because I didn't understand her. You have to understand the hulk side of you, Dr. Banner, that's all. Understand his motivations and his instincts. Knowledge is the enemy of fear." A look of realization shone on Bruce's face that made her want to scream with happiness. For the first time since meeting him, he looked hopeful. It was that hope that let her get close to him, let her build a relationship on his side of the cell door, and it was that hope that strengthened her resolve to help.

He was a scientist, through and through, and so, together, they analyzed and studied him. They did experiments, they ran tests, and they wrote up reports because graphs and logical thought on paper seemed to steady Bruce. She did everything she could to steady him. She learned physics, basically, and learned alongside him through the experiments until she could understand why he suddenly got so excited or so dejected by results. By the time they ran out of things to test, he was more than comfortable being around her. She knew it was time.

"Take my hand." He did, without question, which made her chest swell with pride. "We're leaving this cell, Bruce." Before she even finished the sentence, he was protesting and trying to pull away but she refused to let him. And, rather than morph into the hulk, he just stood there in his fear and anger, completely human.

"I'm not asking, Bruce. What you understand, you can control. We're going upstairs now." He swallowed hard and hesitated but she squeezed his hand and nodded. And he followed her.

His eyes were dark with fear and his hands shook, even in hers, but he followed her. He blinked in the sudden bright light and shied away from the open door, his pulse racing against her skin, but he followed her. It made her so unbelievably happy to know that he trusted her that much. To know that all that time, all that effort, had actually helped him trust himself a little bit more. It was all the things she'd wished someone had done for her all those years ago and, when she watched his eyes flicker to her for reassurance, she was reminded how good this felt. Refusing to let him suffer the way she had.

When they stepped over that threshold, she could feel his hand threatening to break every bone in hers. But he didn't. They rode up in the elevator in silence. He was tense and afraid but he didn't shift or transform and he didn't hurt her, even if he was terrified. She showed him his quarters and stayed with him for the first night just to be sure no nightmare sparked any kind of relapse or episode but, sure enough, he woke up just as human as he'd gone to sleep. They talked a lot, still, just in his room because he was used to her and her voice. She didn't leave the room for more than five minutes until he was confident enough to be alone. Even then, she wasn't worried.

He understood the hulk, now, and she knew how much taking a scientific approach to it helped it be less intimidating. It was one thing to study, and quite another to transform into a monster. She knew that, and that was what let her trust him. Still, he clung to her for meals or outings. He was afraid of seeing anyone that might recognize him or fear him because he thought it might spark a reaction. But, slowly, that lessened.

She watched with pride when he started to move back towards the lab and his scientific pursuits. It showed her that he was truly improving because, not only did he return what he loved, but she knew those experiments had nothing to do with the hulk. It was science for the sake of science, not fear. And, slowly, she saw what she assumed was the old Bruce come out the longer he worked in the labs and the more comfortable he got with the other people there.

When she went to check up on him after he missed a lunch date, he was deep in paperwork and his eyes were alight with excitement and he just jumped at the chance to explain it all her to way too quickly but he looked happy and, for once, he wasn't afraid of turning or losing control. He was just a geek with his science experiments. She had to smile. This was Bruce-the real Bruce, before any radiation or struggle-who was just so incredibly happy to learn and share that knowledge.

They kept in touch, though Bruce was unreliable at times. It was easy for him to get wrapped up in a project, but she never took it personally and, in fact, it made her happy. If he was lost in an experiment, then he wasn't focused on his own fear. She loved it, honestly, because as much as she could help Clint and Steve they were nowhere near as changed as Bruce was. Bruce was positively reborn. And that wasn't to say he didn't need her still, from time to time, but their daily meetings went to daily texts, then weekly check ins, then the occasional update. Bruce was independent and he didn't need her comfort, he just needed someone who understood that fear. She didn't mind, though, because she knew he was happy. And the second he wasn't, he texted her. Sometimes they just got coffee, sometimes they worked in the labs or just talked, but he always had at least a little bit of that light in his eyes and she loved that more than anything.

She loved Clint and Steve, truly. But watching Bruce just flourish and grow was like taking the training wheels off a child's bike and watching them soar. Clint and Steve still had those training wheels-she doubted they would ever lose them, because they were scarred in a very different way-but it gave her a distinct sense of satisfaction to know at least one of her patients had begun to soar.

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Thanks for reading! Sorry for the late update but I wanted to put more thought into this one because Bruce isn't a character I normally write. Please review! Tony and Bucky to be added soon.


	6. Tony

AN I don't own Marvel or any of the characters. Tony's grand entrance has finally come! Warnings for (consensual) choking/asphyxiation later on. Enjoy!

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Natasha was with Clint when Coulson appeared again, bearing that knowing look. She allowed him into the room with a flick of her hand but didn't stop massaging Clint on her bed, letting her touch linger in the most affectionate of ways because she saw nothing wrong with Coulson seeing this. Coulson had been the one to assign her Clint in the first place, after all. But the senior agent stepped into the room, took one look at Clint, and almost bolted. Figured. She whispered a reassurance to Clint and then pushed Coulson out into the hall.

"What the hell was that?!" Her voice was harsher than she meant but Coulson was still sputtering.

"I- I could say the same to you! He's practically naked!" She rolled her eyes.

"Please! He's an archer he pulled a muscle in his shoulder, relax." But Coulson did not relax.

"Natasha, I don't think you realize the gravity of this situation even _I_ haven't seen him without a shirt on and I practically raised him!" She heard the indignance and shock in his voice but she just shrugged. She knew about the scars but she'd never asked or told anyone else about them. Their relationship was more.. confidential.

"Did you want something or just come to gawk?"

"I got another one. He's gonna be hard to crack." She just shrugged. They all were hard to crack, that's what made Coulson bring them to her.

Coulson showed her to an interrogation room. For a second, she honestly thought he was going to interrogate her but she knew better by now. If Coulson wanted answers from her, he would just ask her straight up. But Coulson just gestured to the observation window. Inside was a man, sitting in the metal chair with his feet up on the table, reclining in a very expensive suit with sunglasses on. Indoors. Arrogant, she could sense it through the glass, and sure of himself but all that attitude had to be covering something. She stepped into the room. Immediately his eyes flicked up and she saw him process her: body, sex, female.

"Hey sweet cheeks could you grab me a double shot latte with cream no sugar?" She rolled her eyes, though, dramatically and pushed his feet off the table. They hit the floor with an unceremonious thud.

"Call me that ever again and I'll make you regret it." He stiffened at the threat, unconsciously, so she dialed it back a bit. "If you want coffee get it yourself." He sat up and looked at her, taking off his sunglasses. His eyes were a deep brown and actually kind of intriguing to look at but she dismissed that detail to her file in her mind for later. Now, she faced him. Him and that fucking arrogant smirk.

"Well aren't we the fiesty one, little red?" She glared but it was so fast it was basically an instinct more than a reaction. Yes, this one would definitely be getting on her nerves.

"It's ma'am to you, Brat." The man did a double take. She could tell just from watching him that he was used to getting what he wanted, and he was used to being listened too-obeyed. That was about to change, of course, but his shock as he felt the dynamic shift was still amusing to her. He looked at her like she couldn't believe she had the nerve to speak to him that way. Like he was surprised _sweet cheeks_ didn't just bow her head and comply. His eyes narrowed into slits at her.

"What did you just say to me?" But, in an instant, she was inches from him. The firmness in his voice felt too much like him trying to take back control and she was not having that-not from him. She swung herself up onto the table sat on it, putting a foot on either side of him on the chair and leaning forward so she could look down into his eyes. His breath caught, obviously aroused, but she didn't let him get any closer.

"Address me as _ma'am_ , my little brat, or I'll have to make sure the lesson can't be so easily forgotten." Now beneath her, the man's pupils widened in either fear or desire. Or both. Honestly, she wouldn't have been surprised if her taking control was a turn on for someone like him because it was usually the dominant, powerful men who were drawn to that but her goal wasn't to seduce him. He exuded control and confidence. She was going to break that.

"My bad, _ma'am_." He spat it out like an insult but it was the word she was looking for so she rewarded him with a sweet little smile. It was too sweet, too much of a warning, and anyone who knew her would have recognized that immediately but not this man. He was too focused on himself. But he fixed his posture into a slightly more submissive stance-correcting himself into what he thought she wanted-and she let it go for the time being.

"Better. I'd hate to have to punish you on our first day, Anthony." With that, she walked out. She was prepared to spend hours with this one, just like she had with Bruce, but she could see now that Stark was a long-term project. He wouldn't crack in a matter of days, or even weeks, and what he needed was much more complicated than calculus homework or cuddles. So she didn't push him hard or far on their first day, she left it at that, and merely mulled him over in her mind as she retreated to her room and waited for her other patients to arrive.

* * *

She spent the night with Steve curled around her, shaking and shivering even though she was sweating. She never minded, though. When she woke up, he'd already left for training so she just headed for the minimum security cell she'd been directed to. No time like the present, right? Tony was inside, still asleep on the cot.

"Rise and shine, baby, time for today's lesson." Tony stirred but groaned out some sort of refusal that sounded vaguely like _five more minutes Friday_. She ripped the blanket out from under him and flung him right onto the floor.

"Hey what the fuck!?" She stopped him with a single finger to his lips.

"Watch your mouth, pretty boy, or I'll have to watch it for you. When I see you, you will greet me with good morning ma'am." He sneered at her but just as quickly she slapped him across the face. Hard enough to sting, but nothing more. He hissed, glaring at her.

"Never make that face at me again. If I ask you a question you will respond with yes ma'am or no ma'am, understood?"

"Yes." She stroked a nail along his cheek in a slight threat. He was clearly no longer amused by her antics and debating breaking out, showing control, just to slip back into what he knew. But she couldn't have that.

"Yes what?" His eyes narrowed but from where he was-on his knees on the floor-he didn't have much power in their current situation.

"Yes _ma'am_." She smiled and smoothed her fingers gently over the red skin of his cheek.

"Good, now don't make me remind you again." Thus began the long discussion of limits and safewords and expectations. She was willing to give or compromise on almost anything except the fact that she was in control and he showed her respect. She told him it was because she was a higher rank in Shield-which she was-but it was because she was determined that this would help him. It would take time, but this was the best course of action.

* * *

Tony was a process, a project. He had a lot of arrogance and willpower but she was determined. He needed that trust, the sweetness of giving up control, but he wasn't going to just give it to anyone who asked, let alone her. With him, she was in it for the long haul. But, while long in duration, her work with him didn't take up all of her day every day so, in between sessions, she kept up on her other charges.

Peter and her got dinner twice a week at a burger place just outside the city limits where he worked. She quizzed him for his anthropology midterm and his Spanish test. When he went to the bathroom, she slid twenty dollars in ones into his jacket pockets. He was doing well, and she was glad to see it. He was still a kid, so it didn't have the same sense of freedom that Bruce did, but she was more than happy to see him coping and managing his life without falling apart. It was a lot, but he was learning well. She ended every dinner with a hug and a reassurance that she was proud of him.

As for Steve and Clint, she kept very good track of their schedules. If Coulson hadn't already been their handler, she would have gotten that title because she knew where they were at any given moment and she knew what happened the second it happened. If Steve so much as got a papercut, she knew about it. Clint was harder, because he did black ops still and was often overseas or classified, but she knew what she could and it was enough. For instance, she knew what time his plane got back from Tangier.

It was around one in the morning, dark and silent in the way New York nights are outside the city, and she met him on the tarmac. He was a mess. She didn't have to ask what happened because she didn't want him to break down trying to explain and she wasn't sure she wanted to know the details. She would push, if he needed her too, but otherwise it was easier not to know.

In the back of the Shield SUV, he was stiff and rough around the edges and they didn't speak until they were safely in her room. There, he just shattered. He hit the floor, not even making it to her bed, and just fell apart no matter how tightly she held him-and it scared her. She'd never seen him this bad, but she was determined to take care of him. So, he cried silently but she just hugged him and rubbed his back and smoothed his hair.

"I'm sorry..." he whispered but she shook her head. He stayed for cuddles that night, which was unusual when he was fresh off the plane, but she didn't mind. Usually, he preferred to spend the first night or two alone in his room and just regroup and shower and return back to whatever kind of normal he set his sights on. But that night, he needed the extra affection. And, just when she was sure he was going to leave, he buried his face into the crook of her neck and clung to her.

"Please can I stay?"

"Of course, always."

* * *

After three weeks, Tony had lost a bit of the bite behind his words when he spoke to her. Every ma'am was a little less sarcastic than the one before it and he kneeled without her having to ask. He still sassed her enough to get a swat to the ass or for her to pull his hair but she realized, slowly, that he wasn't testing her as much as he was reassuring himself that those limits were still there. That she was still in control. He obeyed more quickly even with simple things like standing or sitting. He opened up to her more, too, when she ordered. Progress.

Tony was complicated. There was a lot of distrust and suspicion there, which she understood, and she could tell he'd been hurt by someone before in a more subtle way than she was used to, but he never hinted at any of it. Never mentioned his family, or his childhood. Never talked about his life before coming to Shield, or any of his businesses or employees. She didn't push him on any of it unless it was completely necessary, but she was curious.

Their relationship wasn't sexual. Often times, there was a lot of sexual tension both from the dynamic and because Tony just seemed to like it that way, but she never acted on it. She noticed, of course, when particular displays of control made him hard. She noted every action that made his breathing hitch in his throat. But she didn't act on it.

Tony, however, was more than willing to try and seduce her every chance he got-half joking and half serious. She allowed it, but never encouraged him. He thought it was hilarious, though, and by far the best game he'd ever come up with so it became common place for him to flirt with her rather than blatantly disobey. Therefore, her corrections and punishments became more subtle and indirect as well. Rather than raise her voice, she teased his throat with her lips. Instead of slapping him across the face, she raked her fingernails down his back until he groaned. She teased, rather than punished, and while it worked extremely well it left a lot of pent up energy between them after every session.

"May I make a request, ma'am?" She cocked her head and raised an eyebrow, intrigued because he rarely ever asked for anything, but nodded. "If I do well, will you give me a reward?" This.. was surprising. She was used to their dynamic now and, usually, his reward for good behavior was just a lack of punishment or, if he was lucky, some kind of relief for the teasing. Never before had he dared make a request, and certainly not for a reward. Of course, her mind immediately went to a sexual kind of reward which she refused to do while he was still obviously so broken, but those soft brown eyes just pleaded with her to understand. She caved.

"That sounds reasonable. What kind of reward did you have in mind?" She knew he struggled with words. It was one thing for him to submit to her like this, to follow the routine and the structure, but it was quite another to say it. He wouldn't ask out loud, she already knew that, because she could tell this was something more than just a little annoying one-liner and he was nervous, shifting from knee to knee. But she'd said yes, and was waiting.

He reached halfway for her hands, pausing to wait for her nod of approval, and took them in his own. She thought he might guide them down to his crotch or even his ass but no. He stared into her eyes, refusing to look away. It wasn't a challenge for dominance as much as it was him showing her how genuine and vulnerable he was being with this, asking her to take it seriously. She did, merely waiting for whatever he wanted.

She was not prepared for him to lift her hands to his throat. For a moment, she just looked at him, not quite understanding, and he guided her fingers to squeeze a bit at the arteries on either side of his windpipe. She watched him, even as he did it to himself through her hands, and watched him relax. It was gradual, at first, but it was there. His head started to lull back and his grip loosened but she stopped it right then and there, moving instead behind him to whisper next to his ear.

"You want me to choke you if you're good?" She didn't mean to rub it in or emphasize it like that, she just wanted to be sure that was what he wanted, but he _moaned_ and tried to lean back into her at that sentence. Internally, she chuckled. This was actually what he wanted, needed. And he was trusting her enough to ask for it, even if he was embarrassed by it and even if he was afraid.

"I'm so proud of you, Tony, for asking for what you want." She deliberately brushed her fingers over his throat and he shivered, but didn't move. "I think that deserves a reward, don't you?" But she didn't give him time to agree or disagree before she gripped his throat and squeezed exactly the way he'd done before, just slightly harder. He just _melted_. His muscles spasmed and then went lax and, as he collapsed inward, he let his head drop back against her stomach. Eyes closed, mouth slightly open, he looked beautiful. The perfect image of surrender and trust as he didn't squirm, didn't fight, didn't even make a sound-he just took it. And loved it.

When she let go, he whined at the loss. But before he could wallow in his own sadness, she was distracting him with this command and that command and keeping him on his feet so that he couldn't think too much about what had just happened. She didn't want him second guessing himself when he was still emotionally fragile. When they ended the session, he kneeled in front of her chair like always but she couldn't stop herself this time from reaching out. Usually, if she touched him it was a pat on the shoulder or a hand through his hair. This time, though, she reached for his throat.

She didn't squeeze, didn't apply any pressure, she just lightly held her hand there and blanketed his throat until his breath came in short little gasps and he squirmed on the floor for more. She laughed, light and airy, and thumbed his pulse point. Honestly, she loved seeing him like this. Watching him whimper and silently beg her from his knees was the kind of wholehearted submission she'd been looking for since day one and she loved it. She couldn't help herself from pressing a kiss to the side of his neck as she walked out. Completely platonic, though. Right?

She was sitting and eating lunch in the mess hall with Bruce. She knew, realistically, that her patients would have to meet-aside from Clint and Steve, obviously-because there were too many and they were too similar for it not to happen. She just hadn't expected it over agency regulated portions of casserole.

She was just sitting with Bruce as he went on about his latest theory. She was listening, even if she didn't follow, because she liked that light in his eyes and how excited he seemed, when he suddenly went quiet across from her. His eyes stopped just over her shoulder. Then she felt why. Two hands, rough and calloused, touched either shoulder and instantly she knew. Clint. He was the only one who was ever publicly physical or affectionate with her.

"Clint, this is Dr. Bruce Banner. Bruce, this is agent Clint Barton." It could have been a lot worse. She felt the tension from each of them but it would have been much worse had it been Tony she was eating with. He seemed like the jealous, possessive type even if she wasn't his. She couldn't blame him. though, he was just afraid of losing what she meant to him. But she reached back and took Clint's hands in hers, lacing their fingers together, and pulled him down next to her.

"Bruce, tell Clint what you were saying about the radium reaction levels." Bruce hesitated but started again and, the more he spoke, the more she felt Clint relax beside her. He didn't feel as threatened. She made no attempt to hide any physical contact or affection between them either, which seemed to help. By the time the meal ended Clint managed a few pleasantries even.

She was proud of her boys.

* * *

Thanks for reading! Please please review! Bucky comes next!


	7. Bucky

AN I don't own Marvel or any of its characters! Time for Bucky (my love) but I promise I'm only incredibly biased. From this point on, all chapters will be any mix thereof of the already mentioned characters but I don't plan on adding any new ones. Enjoy!

* * *

As she stepped out of the long session with Tony, Coulson stopped her.

"I swear to God, Coulson. If you say you have another agent for me to tame I'll kill you." But Coulson didn't laugh.

"This one's a little more serious, actually. Please just say the word if you can't do it, okay?" She hesitated but nodded, confused now. If she couldn't do it? What the hell was that supposed to mean? What kind of fucked up did he think she wouldn't be able to handle?

Coulson led her to the hospital wing to one of the secure rooms. Restrained to a medical bed, the man tossed and jerked in his sleep. Sweat covered his brow and he was shaking.

"Who is he?" Coulson just motioned towards the door. She got close enough to hear him before she stopped. He was mumbling in Russian. She looked to Coulson in question but he just motioned towards the room again. Silently, she slipped inside.

" _Please please stop please don't make me do this!_ " She stepped closer, watching his body constrict and twist in pain at the dream. " _Please not her_ -" He stopped suddenly.

" _Ready to comply."_ It was her turn to stop. No… She knew those words, that voice. There was no possible way. No, it was a coincidence. She didn't move closer but decided to speak.

" _Wake up._ " The man jolted the second she spoke and tried to lunge-for her, or away from her, she couldn't tell-but was restrained. He stopped and collapsed back onto the bed. His body was covered in bandages and monitors but any sliver of skin that was somehow undamaged was covered by the shield insulating hospital scrubs. Down each arm, each leg, and up his neck. The long hair hid his face but she couldn't breathe and she wasn't totally sure she was ready to see him. Regardless, he wouldn't look at her.

" _Let me see your face._ " He just turned away. There was a mask on the table that she could guess they'd taken from him but he looked so unsettled and uncomfortable with the idea of her seeing his face. He shuddered and tensed like he was trying to brace himself.

" _Let me._ " For a second, neither of them were breathing. There was no way, right? She couldn't let herself even consider the possibility but… It didn't matter. At the command, he stopped. Then, slowly, settled back into a motionless, stiff way of existing that turned him to stone.

" _What's my task_?" Natasha felt her stomach drop. Task? There was no way. It was impossible, right? She had to see his face. Suddenly, it felt like the floor was falling out from beneath her and she was barely standing, gasping for oxygen somehow. She stepped closer, moving towards the center of the room where he wouldn't be able to hide as easily from her eyes, and tried to see past the long, matted hair and the bandages.

"No, no assignment." She was trying to reassure him, but he jolted even more violently than before. This time, though, it was at her English.

"You speak English?" She nodded, staring at the barest hint of his jaw she could glimpse from under his hair. "In Russia?"

"No, this is the United States. New York, to be exact." The man stiffened even more on the bed. His left shoulder was a little too smooth, too spherical, right? Could it be metal? She edged closer, feeling like every breath dragged her closer to a truth she both needed and dreaded. If it was him… She honestly wasn't sure if she wanted it to be him. His chest heaved on the bed like he was seconds away from a panic attack but then, just like before, he suddenly just stopped. He stilled and, like a machine, settled into a rigid position. The longer she watched him, the more she noticed that there was a darkness in the way he breathed that she didn't really like... It put her on edge, but she couldn't figure out why.

"What's my _zadaniye_?" She shook her head, though. _Zadaniye_... That word settled in her gut like lead weights and she wanted to throw it back up, to get rid of it as fast as possible. Like the person she was sent to kill was just an object, a correction. Like pulling the trigger was as easy as putting a fallen book back on the shelf or dusting the mantle. Simple.

"No task," She saw his attention zero in on her word choice, but kept going. "Not from me, at least." _Zadaniye_ meant a lot of things: job, mission, target, assignment… the list went on. But she'd chosen the word task. It wasn't even the best English equivalent, from a language standpoint, but it was the word that carried the same meaning with that same mindless connotation. Killing someone was just completing a task. No different than a child's math homework or the day's chores.

"Who are you?" She stayed quiet for a few beats too long, making him uncomfortable, but she succeeded in making him uneasy enough to shift on the bed. And, then, when she stayed quiet he turned to look at her. Her chest seized in on itself. Outwardly, she was sure she showed no reaction because that was what she was trained to do but internally? Colors swirled and blurred until it seemed like she was breathing in images rather than oxygen, shaking in place and just trying to understand. He stared at her, though, waiting for a response.

"I think you know." He gave her a blank, empty look, even as she grabbed the end of the bed to steady herself. There was so much weight in his face, now, and so many new scars. But those eyes were the same. Cold and grey with only a slight tinge of blue to rival the coldest Russian winter.

"You work with Hydra?" She didn't grimace, though. She couldn't-not when she was staring into those eyes and watching them dance and deepen like swirls of snowflakes under moonlight. He didn't know her. She repeated that to herself over and over again but it didn't help the ache in her chest.

"Not anymore." The thought crossed his face before he could hide it: there was no escaping Hydra. People didn't leave Hydra. Not alive. He really didn't know her...

"Am I dead?" He was so serious, so completely deadpanned, that she wanted to cry. This wasn't the beautiful kind of cold that she was used to, this was like frozen steel. He sounded almost… hopeful? He wanted to be dead. Looking at him, she felt tears sear inside her, refusing to fall. His face was so apathetic, so empty, like he didn't care if he was alive or if he was dead or if she was going to haul him off to cryo again. This wasn't winter.

"No, you're not dead." He looked honest to god disappointed.

"Are you a hallucination?" She had to bite her lip to keep from saying something she would regret. Deep breaths. Slowly, she forced oxygen through her lungs as she stared at him.

"No." He didn't mean it as a compliment, there was no twist of _you're so beautiful I must be dreaming_. He meant it as a serious question. He didn't trust that she was real. He didn't trust that this wasn't some sick game, some play at his emotions, even though he didn't recognize her. He was still afraid of her, he still thought of her as a weakness, even when he didn't know her...

"Who are you?" She bit her lip harder, drawing blood, but couldn't stop her feet from stepping closer to the hospital bed. He was restrained. He couldn't hurt her, not easily at least. But her hands still shook as she stilled beside the bed. She knew she shouldn't try to spark anything in him because it was cruel and she would only be disappointed if it didn't work but she couldn't stop herself.

" _You don't recognize me, Zim?_ " On the bed, he froze. He stared at her, his eyes not really seeing, for what felt like centuries. There was no recognition in his face, not yet, but there was a lack of indifference that let her hope. He was so confused, his brow furrowing in thought, but he just stared at her.

" _My name is Zimniy Soldat_." She smiled at the full title-Winter Soldier-because they both knew that wasn't his real name, that wasn't even what anyone had ever called him, but the words bubbled up from her gut before she could think to stop them.

" _Yeah, and mine is Krasnaya Shapochka_." He stared at her, unblinking. Little Red Riding Hood. No one had called her that for years but it rolled off her lips like honey. The heart monitor beside the bed began to shriek in protest but she didn't need to hear it to know his heart was racing out of control, or that he was scarcely breathing. She didn't feel much better, honestly.

" _Krasna_ …" he whispered, rolling the nickname around in his mouth like he was trying to remember the taste. She shouldn't have said that, she knew. It was too much too fast and it was probably better if he didn't remember but it was too late for that now. Too late to go back… Her hand brushed along the leather of the cuff on his wrist.

"Are you yourself right now?" He stayed quiet, just looking at her. "Will you hurt me if I take these off?" Slowly, he swallowed and just looked at her like he was trying to steel himself to speak.

"Probably." There was so much defeat laced into his voice she wanted to scream and throw something because she hated the way it pooled in her gut like poison. He sounded so fucking helpless! But she didn't let herself hesitate or overthink it, she just reached out and started loosening the leather. And, honestly, if he did hurt her? She wasn't sure that she cared anymore.

"The door is reinforced from the outside…" It was supposed to be a deterrent against escape but he just nodded, refusing to look away from her. He didn't care if it was locked, she could see that plain as day. That choked sadness in his face wasn't at being held captive, it was at trying to remember. Slowly, she undid the latch on his left wrist. She had to sit on the edge of the cot to reach over him but, surprisingly, she didn't jump when her fingers touched the cold metal of his left arm. He just stared at her.

"They'll shoot us both before they let you escape…" Again, he just nodded. She moved to his right wrist but hesitated. The left was stronger, realistically, and she should have feared that if she was going to fear him at all. But the skin to skin contact seemed so much more daunting.

"I hurt you, didn't I?" His voice trembled out into the air almost as badly as her hands did, fumbling with the latch.

"Yeah, but I hurt you too." Then, suddenly, his wrist was free. They just sat there in silence, unable to look away, and she was so caught up in that steely grey that she didn't notice he'd lifted his hand. She jumped when he touched her cheek, but only for a second. He startled more than she did, actually.

" _You're warm._ " She nodded, barely noticing that he'd slipped back into Russian, but he looked so shocked by that… She had to reach out, to cover his hand with her own and hold it a little tighter against her cheek. His skin felt like ice. She shuddered at the thought, imagining the crystals of ice on his hands and the frigid bite from the cryo gas. How many times had they froze him like that?

" _Do you remember me?_ " He started to shake his head, to just deflate on the bed in front of her, but she didn't let him get that far. " _Do you remember this?_ " She grabbed his hand and moved it to her stomach. Carefully, she lifted her shirt and pressed his palm against the scar there, where he'd shot through her. As she watched, his eyes closed and he traced it slightly. The longer she let him, the more he tensed and started to grimace until his face was as twisted up in pain as the scar tissue on her stomach.

" _I hurt you_ …" he whispered again, letting his fingers brush against her skin. She stopped him by taking his hand again and moving it back to her cheek, holding it there. Slowly, she felt his palm relax and cup her cheek as he ran his thumb gently beneath her left eye. Dear god she wanted to cry. She felt like she was seven years old again, watching the winter soldier massacre entire cities worth of people. But, the longer they sat there, the more his gaze softened. That hard, bullet-grey in his eyes let a little more blue leak into it.

" _Krasnaya Shapochka…._ " He said it blankly, like he was repeating her rather than remembering it or calling her it, but it was progress. " _You… They told me you were dead?_ " She shook her head before the words were even out of his mouth, though, trying again in vain to reassure him. That sentence alone seemed to do more damage than any other phrase they'd ever spoken. He thought she was dead.

" _No, I'm alive..._ " Her lower lip started to tremble, even as his thumb reached out to wipe away nonexistent tears. She wouldn't let herself cry, not now and not for this reason, but they were both far closer to tears than they'd been in a long time. He still didn't look like he'd aged a day.

" _Krasnaya Shapochka… Krasnaya..._ " he breathed, barely letting the words ghost out over his lips. " _My Krasna_ …" She felt the tear, just balanced in the corner of her eye, but the way his voice broke over that damn nickname was enough to send it tumbling down her cheek. He caught it, barely, but before she could even react she was in his arms. She didn't want to push him too far or force it but she couldn't stop herself from reaching out and clinging to him at that one fucking word. _His_ Krasna. It shattered her right then and there, and she felt every aftershock tremble through her body and into his. He didn't push her away or fight, though. She curled into his lap and buried her face in his chest as the tears came pouring out but he just held her, smoothing her hair with one hand as he did.

" _I'm so sorry Zim-_ " But he shook his head before she could finish. She thought maybe he was going to tell her to stop apologizing for this display of weakness because he didn't understand that she was apologizing for so much more but he didn't say a word. Instead, he pressed a kiss to her forehead and let out a shaky breath. He was crying, too, she realized. Tears fell as he hid his face in her hair but she managed to free her arms and wrap them around his neck, hugging him back just as tightly. She just needed something, some way to hold onto him and hold his pieces together as tightly as he was holding hers.

" _I thought… They told me you were dead. I heard you were dead, Krasna_.." She bit her lip, barely feeling the whisper against her ear, but refused to let it send her into another round of sobs.

" _The same rumors could be spread about you, if you wanted them to be._ " It meant the world to her that he hesitated on that. Because he wasn't dismissing it. Hesitation meant he was considering it, meant that he trusted it was actually an option, a choice. Meant that he still trusted her. Even after so long.

" _No, Krasna. They said-after Belarus…_ " She let a sob slip out before she could stop it and tried to clamp her hand over her mouth but he wouldn't let her. That.. ruined it. That changed everything. Belarus. The one time she'd failed the Red Room. The time he was sent after her.

" _You thought you killed me?_ " He just held her, his cheek pressed against her forehead, and let out a few shaky breaths against her skin. There was so much guilt and so much shame even in just hiding his face from her that she wanted to scream at the world, at everyone who had done this to him. They'd told him that he killed her.

" _You really think that isn't something I'm capable of?_ " She winced but just squeezed his hand to make his grip a little tighter. It was like he was afraid she would shatter if he touched her.

" _You really think I'm that easy to kill?_ " He laughed beneath her and it rumbled up into her body but it was so foreign and so pure that she almost started crying again. She made him laugh. Even when they'd first met she couldn't remember even making him smile, let alone laugh. It's taken years to get close enough to him to even see his smile… He was remembering her.

* * *

Thanks for reading! I love WinterWidow, if that wasn't clear, but Clint and Steve are definitely still in the picture as well as the other platonic relationships. Please review!


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